The Leverage of Valentines
by Sadie Flood
Summary: ''All bodies in the universe are constantly drifting further apart.'' Mildly slashy.


Author's Note: I own neither the characters nor the Aimee Mann song (Calling It Quits) from which I stole the title.

1. All bodies in the universe are constantly drifting further apart.  
  
It's the only thing Carol really remembers from an ill-chosen astronomy class that feels like a thousand years ago now.   
  
At the time, it seemed relevant. It couldn't possibly be true, she was young and desperately in love and the universe wasn't expanding, it was contracting, getting smaller and smaller until the only two bodies that mattered were left to exist together alone in silence on Saturday night, pressed together between flannel sheets she'd brought from home. The only sound was the occasional murmur of her voice and that of the other in reply.   
  
Her mind drifted as it wound down but the revelation continued to echo, repeating persistently, like the chorus of a hundred songs she hated.  
  
_All bodies... apart._  
  
She looks at the universe through a different lens now.  
  
It turned out to be true.

2. She doesn't say 'I love you,' especially not when she means it.  
  
Carol would have been able to figure this out if she hadn't been told. But she was told, during one of their late-night/early-morning conversations, fueled by her father's favorite vintage. Apropos of virtually nothing, C.J. confessed: "I never told him I loved him. But I think I might have."   
  
Carol didn't know how to respond to this maudlin epiphany, so she said nothing, just smiled and pretended to understand.   
  
She thinks it is better to mean it and not say it than to say it and not mean it, as she has done countless times. She remembers the reflection of her disingenuous admittance on the faces of those whose names she likes to think she has forgotten, the instant feedback: flattery, horror, shock, interest. After a while she began to say it just to see how they would interpret it, like a game.  
  
It has been some time since she last had the opportunity.

3. She will arrive late and leave early.  
  
She says, "He couldn't handle the job, and I couldn't blame him. It was kind of pathetic; he criticized me, and all I could do was agree. Why bother to defend myself? I barely knew him anyway."  
  
Carol says nothing. It is 3 a.m. and C.J. is in full-on girl talk mode. She can't really blame her. She knows she is the closest thing C.J. has to a female friend, at least the type of friend to whom she can offer this kind of self-disclosure. The power differential binds Carol to her even when she is made uncomfortable by the nature of the knowledge offered.   
  
There is Donna, one might point out. But Donna is a pleasant acquaintance with whom she could converse blandly about work. Neither of them think spending time with Donna off the job would be worth the effort expended to include her in their rituals. One night, while particularly intoxicated, they were inspired to imagine what Donna might take away from one of their discussions: "Blah blah blah, Josh." "Blah Josh?" "Blah boys blah blah Josh."  
  
They like to imagine they are superior to those who wear their hearts so openly, like a fresh wound, fair game for others to observe and mock. Carol's apartment holds no harbor for that kind of girl.  
  
That night, Carol did not bring up the closest thing she has had to a personal conversation with Donna. She was presumably alone in the ladies' room, allowing herself a brief emotional release. When she emerged, she found Donna standing in front of a sink, staring at her. She tried to rein herself in, but it didn't work. Turning it off is never as simple as turning it on. Donna reached out, actually hugged her. Carol wanted to confess, wanted to thank her, wanted to hug her back. Instead she pulled away, shamed by her weakness. The look in Donna's eyes clearly said: It takes one to know one. Carol straightened her back and wiped her eyes. She stared directly into the mirror and said, "I don't know what you're talking about." Donna shrugged and quietly replied, "Yeah." She left without another word.  
  
Carol is more careful now.

4. She will not enjoy being referred to as "Mrs."  
  
"It was over the second he proposed," she laments, drawing her legs up to her chest, curled up on Carol's floor. "I could have gone on like that with him forever if he just hadn't asked."  
  
Carol nods sympathetically. This is generally her role in these conversations. She doesn't mind. She enjoys listening, perfecting the art of appearing interested, sometimes even fooling herself.  
  
Sometimes C.J. asks about her love life, and after stuttering helplessly the first few times, she tried to go out with men once in a while just to have something to say. The dates were always the same: awkward silences, artless fumbling, a quick retreat, unreturned phone calls. Her heart was no longer in it. After a while she figured out that it would simply be easier to make things up.

5. It will never happen.  
  
"His wife is pregnant," she says miserably, finishing off the first of many tall bottles to be consumed in a single bound that evening.   
  
"So you said."  
  
"I don't know why it should bother me like this."  
  
Nor do I, she thinks, but does not say.  
  
"No one else knows that I'm even remotely upset. I did a good job of pretending not to be." She pauses, smiles. "You're the one I share my secrets with. The one with whom I share my secrets, that's you."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And you're the one who doesn't have any secrets to share."   
  
She says nothing.  
  
"You're my closest friend, really. You know? So many lost hours of sleep, I can blame on you."  
  
"You talk like Yoda when you're drunk, have you noticed?" Carol asks, opening another bottle.  
  
"I hate that movie."  
  
"So do I."  
  
"See? We have so much in common."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I'm really depressed right now."  
  
"You shouldn't be."  
  
"I know. I'm not."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Okay."

6. It will not be necessary to be intoxicated when it happens, if it happens.  
  
"I went to Berkeley, you know," C.J. pointed out once, defensively.   
  
(She has forgotten how the subject came up.)  
  
"I know," Carol said into her wine glass, which created a pleasant mini-echo.  
  
"I'm not easily shocked."  
  
"I know."  
  
"I've done some crazy things."  
  
"I'm sure you have."  
  
"Oh, now you're just humoring me."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You really doubt it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Stop that."  
  
"I don't."  
  
Pause.  
  
"Seriously."  
  
"Good. You shouldn't."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"You're doing it again, aren't you?"  
  
"It's possible."  
  
"I'll prove it to you, then."  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
"I will."  
  
"I'm wait--"

7. All bodies in the universe are constantly drifting further apart.  
  
She finally got what she wanted.  
  
Was it simply another name to add to the list?  
  
The morning after serves as a bitter reminder of why she does not do this anymore. How could she have allowed herself to be surprised by the empty bed, the cold greeting masking shame and fear and regret? Clearly, she must always have known it would be a one-time affair. Afterward, any bond that might have existed between them beforehand would be shattered, replaced by memories of fingers brushing damp hair off her neck and visual reminders in the form of bruised wrists and impressions of teeth invisible to everyone else. There would be no more late-night conversations, no more empty bottles, no more girl talk, no more between them but jobs to be done. What else did she think would happen? She can't remember now. Her memory is clouded. Years, now, of friendship, obliterated in the course of a few hours. In the past it has been proven that what she wants is never what she thinks it will be after she gets it; she tried to stop wanting things. It almost worked.  
  
C.J. was cold during the day, professional, and that is how it should be, Carol thinks. But she knows how this story goes. Tonight there will be no doorbell rung, no offering presented almost shyly. It will be the first of many identical evenings without her.  
  
Again, her astronomy professor, he of the Saturday nights and the flannel sheets, has been proven correct.  
  
She hates him. He is not aware of being hated so violently at this particular moment: he is living quietly in New Mexico with his young wife (who says she loves him and enjoys being called Mrs.) and their new baby. He is happy, and, at this moment, he is asleep. But a million miles away, a former lover hates him again for being right.  
  
More than that, she simply hates not knowing what will happen next. Except she does know, when she lets herself remember. They will simply continue to drift, constantly, further apart. It is their fate. It is the fate of everyone, and everything. It is the fate of the universe, to expand forever, until there are no connections left. She can't fight it.   
  
_All bodies... apart._


End file.
